His kid had to be Carson’s age. Looked just like his old man, like Carson looked like his.
But Carson would bet the three hundred fifty-eight dollars he’d saved that the kid he was watching was proud of that fact, where Carson absolutely was not.
He’d seen them grin at each other, they did it a lot, and Carson couldn’t remember one single time he’d smiled at his old man.
And he’d seen the goatee guy laugh at something his kid said. Or he’d smack him on the shoulder in a way that wasn’t mean. Or, the best, he’d grab him by the side or back of the neck and tug him close, swaying him around.
It was a hug. A motorcycle guy hug for his boy. Carson knew it, even though he’d never felt anything like it. The kid had done something his father liked. Or made him proud. Or maybe it was just because he looked at his son and couldn’t stop himself from showing some love.
Right then, they were bent over the engine of a car, hood up, one on each side, doing shit. Every once in a while they’d look at each other and say something. Or smile. Or laugh.
Carson watched a long time. Until they quit and walked through the garage, disappearing in its dark depths.
Probably they were off to some house Carson figured was clean and nice and maybe even decorated good. They’d have dinner together. Maybe with the pretty dark-headed girl he’d also seen around who could be none other than that guy’s daughter and that kid’s sister.
They’d get home and have dinner and that guy would ask his son if he’d done his homework. He’d give him crap about the girls he was dating. The good kind. The my-boy’s-becoming-a-man-and-I-like-how-that’s-happening kind.
The kind Carson never got.
On this thought, he took off. Kept walking. Found a spot and dug the book out of the back of his jeans where he’d shoved it, and took the nubs of pencils out of his pockets. He sat with his back to a tree in the park, his ass to the ground, and flipped through.
Sketches.
His.
Drawings of Linus’s bulldog, Ruff. Carson loved that dog. He looked like a bruiser, the way he waddled was flat-out hilarious, but he always seemed like he was smiling. As he would, the love Linus showered on him.
There were also drawings of Mrs. Heely’s house.
She lived across the street and one down from Carson and his dad. She had an American flag on the flagpole, aimed high but stuck at a slant on the house at the top side of her front door, the edges tattered.
He mowed her lawn for money. He also did shit around the house for her because her son, and only child, was gone and so was her old man, so she didn’t have anyone else to do it.
She was a great old broad. Made him cookies. Noticed when he was younger and alone because his dad was out carousing and would bring him over a plate of food, warm food, good food, with vegetables and everything. Sat with him while he ate and made him eat his vegetables and watch Wheel of Fortune with her and other shit before she’d hear his father’s car in the drive. Then she’d put a finger to her lips, wink, grab his dirty plate, and sneak out the back door.
He’d asked about that flag. She’d said they gave it to her at the funeral after her son died “over there.” She put it up and it stayed up, wind, rain, snow, sun.
She told Carson she was never going to take it down. It would fly out there until she died. She didn’t care how tattered it got. Beaten and worn. Faded.
“He would too, you know, if he’d been able to live his life,” she said. “Age does that to you. All’s I got is that flag, Carson. I didn’t get to watch him be a man. Make his life. Grow old. So I’ll watch that flag do it.”
After she said that to him, Carson thought that flag was maybe the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
So he drew it.
Ten times.
He flipped the page and at what he saw, his throat got tight.
The flag might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, but on that page was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.
Carissa Teodoro. Cheerleader. Dated the quarterback. Long golden brown ringlets the color of honey, warm dark brown eyes, sweet little tits, tiny waist, long legs, heart-shaped ass. He knew. He’d seen it in her cheerleader panties when she flipped around.
The golden girl.
Half of the golden couple.
It was too bad her boyfriend, Aaron Neiland, was a total fucktard.
The guy was good-looking and his dad was loaded so he got it.
But he was still a fucktard.
Carissa wasn’t. She smiled at him in the halls. She smiled at everyone. She was nice. Everyone liked her.
Carson did too. Carson wanted to make her whimper.
He also wanted to make her laugh. Throw her head back and laugh real hard, like he saw her do at lunch sometimes. Or at games. Or in the hall. Or whenever.
She laughed a lot.
He was glad she did.
Pretty girls like her who could be bitches but weren’t deserved to laugh.
He turned the page in a notebook that was filled with drawings. Drawings of things that Carson thought were beautiful. Things that made Carson smile, inside, the only place he let himself do it. Things that gave him a little peace.
And he drew a picture of the goatee guy with his son working on the car.
Only when it was done—and he was sure his dad had either passed out or was in a decent mood because he got off—did he go home.
*
“A minute, Carson,” Mr. Robinson called as everyone filed out of his classroom.
It was the last period. He was good to go home. He didn’t want to go home but it was better than being at school. He hated school. Bells telling him where he was supposed to go next. Teachers telling him what (they thought) he was going to do when he got home. Rules about what you could wear, what you could say, where you could be, how you could act.
Totally hated it.
Still, Mr. Robinson was the shit. He made class fun. He dug teaching and didn’t give a crap that everyone knew it.
Half the girls had a crush on him.
Half the boys wanted to be history teachers when they grew up.
Because he liked the guy, Carson walked to his desk.